


Dreams

by fauxpocky (alisso)



Category: House MD
Genre: Dream Sex, Dreams, First Time, Hand Jobs, M/M, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-09-30
Updated: 2006-09-30
Packaged: 2017-12-28 11:16:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/991395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alisso/pseuds/fauxpocky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Do dreams come true?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> This is the smut I wrote to counteract the sap I had planned for Degrees of Love. I'd planned to write some, then two of my friends came over for a Hugh Laurie and Robert Sean Leonard video/dvd fest. Half of "A Bit of Fry and Laurie", a lot of alcohol and my first glimpse of Robert Sean Leonard in "My Best Friend is a Vampire"/"I Was a Teenage Vampire" later, and this was well underway. It took on a life of its own, has been driving me crazy ever since, turned out to be a LOT longer than it was supposed to be, and demanded to be finished before it would let me work on anything else (although I did manage to sneak out one drabble). I am incredibly relieved to have finally finished it!  
> And I'm sort of experimenting with POVs and switching here. Hope the results make sense.

Part One

It was three in the morning when House woke up. He was flushed and sweating and terribly confused.

He'd dreamt. That was fair enough, although unusual, the vicodin usually made for undisturbed unconsciousness. He just hadn't expected the topic of the dream.

Okay, so he'd dreamt about Wilson before. Just that once. Maybe twice. Maybe.

But, in this dream, Wilson had been so young. He'd felt like a dirty old man - okay, so he kind of _was_ a dirty old man, but he felt particularly dirty in this dream.

Wilson had been almost twenty years younger. He must have been in his late teens. He was so skinny, that was what had really startled him. And so pale. All ribs and shoulder blades and taut white skin.

That had been enough of a shock. It was what he was _doing_ to Wilson that was of real concern.

He'd run his hands over the slim young body he found himself confronted with. Such soft, pale skin. He was so _skinny_. Ribs and shoulder blades, and knobbly knees.

The pale face had been turned up to his, red lips parted and dark, dark eyes fixed on his, staring into his soul.

He hadn't been able to resist. He'd bent and kissed those eminently kissable lips, that remarkable mouth.

So soft, so sweet, so hungry and demanding. He'd wanted more, taken more, moved to kiss his way down the bared white throat, trailing across skin that shifted with each panting breath. He found himself enthralled by the way Wilson's pulse beat under his skin.

He dropped a kiss on a shoulder, traced the lines of clavicles with his tongue. He'd licked (licked _Wilson!_ ) slowly, teasing, from the hollow of his throat, up to under his chin. Then back to that face, those smooth, pale cheeks now flushed red with desire, that hot, wet mouth open and panting with longing.

He took it all in in a moment, the flickering lashes that brushed against high sharp cheekbones, the dark brows drawn together with tension and focus, the way his forehead creased, the way he bit his lip. His hands slid up Wilson's sides, his fingers settling neatly into the gaps between ribs, his thumbs brushing over hipbones, soft flat stomach, more ribs, finding nipples that changed under his touch, stiffening as his thumbs ran back and forth.

God, he was a dirty old man. A filthy, dirty, despicable old man wanting to take advantage of a callow youth. But then, perhaps Wilson hadn't been as innocent as all that, in his dream. As his hands explored and he'd indulged himself with that sweet mouth, Wilson had arched under his touch, kissed back with equal, ardent fervour. He'd pressed his body against the invading touch, seeking more, demanding more. His mouth, oh, his mouth, those lips, not drawn in disapproval or yet dragged down by the sorrows of years, they'd welcomed his kiss. That sweet mouth had opened to his tongue's intrusion, drawn it in, sucked on it in a teasing prelude of what might be to come. And the way he moaned, wantonly, desperately, urgently…

But it had been a dream, he reminded himself harshly. All a dream. Wilson was not a pale fragile youth, but a grown man, strong and independent and, not to put too fine a point on it, straight.

He didn't think too hard about that idea. That he was awake at 3am, hard in his pants and sweating profusely, was clear indication that sexuality was somewhat fluid as a concept. He'd always assumed that he was straight, but there was no point now in trying to examine the idea. He was what he was. And what he was, was horny.

He slid a hand under the covers and into his pyjama pants, squeezing lightly, but firmly enough to feel a tingle sweep slowly through his body. He feathered his fingers over the tight white fabric of his y-fronts, before slipping them under the elastic and beginning to stroke.

Unbidden, the thoughts of Wilson, pale and slender, hot and wanting (oh _god_ , he was a filthy, dirty, _dirty_ old man, and _fuck_ , did he love it) rose up in his mind. He bit down on a gasp, muffling the sound, remembering with a jolt that the focus of his dream was sleeping on his couch, so very close by ( _oh_ so dirty, because that thought was _hot_ ). He wondered if he could do this all without a sound and bit his lip.

As he arched his back and shut his eyes and began to surrender to the rhythm, he heard a creak. By the time the noise had registered, another hand was on his cock.

His eyes flew wide and he stared into those deep brown eyes he'd seen before, in his dream. Wilson wasn't a naive boy, but his mouth still drew the eye. Lines now creased his skin at the corners, the lips were thinner, slower to smile, but none of that mattered in the slightest right now. For right now, Wilson's fingers had wrapped tight around his cock, and his hand was starting to stroke slowly but assuredly, and that self same mouth was just as hot and wet and wanting as he'd dreamt it.

*****

Part Two

Despite the uneven surface of the couch he was trying to sleep on, despite his worries, his impending divorce, and the general chaos of his life, he'd slept. He had to.

But now he was awake, and staring at the ceiling, and wondering what the fuck _that_ had been all about.

Stress, he decided, it must be stress. His life was difficult at the moment, busy, complex, more so than usual. Of course that chaos would manifest itself in his dreams. So it really hadn't been _that_ strange...

Nope, it wasn't working. He couldn't convince himself that there was an innocent reason for the dream that had left him wide awake and more than a little flustered.

Maybe it was transference. He was projecting his desires for comfort and affection and everything, and it was only natural that his subconscious would focus on his best friend, even if he was male...nope, still not working.

No amount of psychobabble was going to give him a plausible excuse for dreaming something that only waking up had saved from being a wet dream (at his age, too!) about _House_.

Okay, so he'd had passing thoughts on the subject before, they just weren't usually so vivid - or so hot, he had to admit.

He wasn't surprised that he'd dreamt of House pre-infarction, he often thought of his friend as he had been before the pain and the surgery that had torn his life apart. It was how _long_ before the infarction it must have been that surprised him.

He'd never really pictured House as a young man. Logically he knew he must have been one, once, there was just something about him that seemed so permanently fixed around his current age. One wondered if he'd spent all his life seeming old for his age, and he probably had.

So dreaming him young had been a shock (his subconscious' attempt to compensate for - oh _enough_ already with the psych shit!). Dreaming him naked had been stranger.

He was tall, Wilson knew that as an objective fact, but until the dream he'd never translated that into what it would be like to be tangled in those long limbs. He couldn't have been older than twenty-five, and he was still long and lanky and awkward. But what he lacked in obvious grace, he'd made up for with enthusiasm.

His thigh muscles twitched a little as he remembered the way the young House had touched him, the way he'd explored his body with reverent fingers, finding everything, touching everything. How those luminous blue eyes had shone up at him, awestruck and innocent and beautiful. And how House had squirmed when he'd given in and kissed him, pinning him down with his shorter but stockier frame. Not squirming to get away, he'd discovered, but to push their bodies closer together, grinding their hips and forcing him to break the kiss to cry out at the sensation of House's length pressed against his own.

He'd pressed back, looking down into House's face and feeling his stomach turn over as he watched the expressions that crossed the mobile features. The way lust and desire had creased his forehead, the way his mouth had gaped in shock and open invitation to be kissed.

Wilson wanted to devour this slim young man beneath him, wanted to make him make that _face_ again, so full of innocent amazement at the heat filling his body. He wanted to see that face, how it would change as the young House came.

He'd been shocked by the force of his own desire. He didn't just _want_ to see House come, he _needed_ to. He'd run his hands over the smooth young body, revelling in the guttural moans he could provoke with a flick of a finger or a flicker of tongue. He'd taken the young man's cock in his hand, wondering at the feel of the skin under his fingers and the liquid that was already beginning to ooze from the tip. He'd begun to stroke gently, watching that wonderful face contort, those lips part in shallow gasps, those eyes burning into him.

He'd woken up.

Alone. On House's lounge. With an erection that was _not_ going to be gotten rid of by stern thoughts and picturing his soon-to-be-ex-wife's final expression of disdain when she kicked him out (a previously 100% effective libido destroyer).

Crap.

He couldn't help it. He still wanted to see that face. He wanted to watch House, his best, male, straight friend, as he came.

Oh god, he was so screwed. Or not, of course, and that was the problem. Even if he _did_ try something with House, he didn't really think he was going to get sex out of it. However much his cock seemed to like the idea. And he could hardly just jerk off here, there was no way House wouldn't notice in the morning.

He didn't think he could get away with a cold shower right now, either. It was 3am!

A sound from the direction of House's bedroom made him stop and listen. He tried to put dirty thoughts out of his head, had House woken up in pain? It wouldn't hurt to just go and look in on him, surely?

There were only the slightest creaks caused by his passage as he padded down the hall to the bedroom. And the door opened near-silently.

His eyes grew wide in astonishment and every single dirty thought came flooding back at the sight that met his gaze. That _face_ \- not a dream now, not young, but very real - right before his eyes.

House was lying in his bed, his hands out of sight, but movement visible under the covers gave them away. And his face was contorted with lust and desperation as he stroked himself.

He could have resisted almost anything else, but not that expression. He needed to see House's face as he came. Wanted to _make_ him come.

Suddenly he was beside the bed, with no memory of moving through the intervening space. There was nothing left in his brain now but desire, and he let it guide his actions as he took House's cock in his hand and took over the rhythmic stroking.

Blue eyes flew wide open and he stared into them, thrilling at the flare of lust that burnt there as he squeezed lightly. He was panting himself, though House wasn't aware enough yet of what was going on to be returning the favour, just the awareness of what he was doing made his breath catch in his throat.

And then he was being kissed, and later, he was pretty certain that this was when his brain had short-circuited.

*****

Part Three

The kiss was deep and strong and overwhelming. Wilson found his knees were going weak and he sat awkwardly on the edge of the bed. He slid his free hand up House's body, awed by the sensation of skin under his fingers. House was shuddering under his touches, thrusting into his hand.

He was going to get to see it, he was going to get to watch House come. He was going to get to _make_ House come. That thought alone was almost enough to tip him over the edge.

And House, House was _moaning_ , making this noise in the back of his throat that might possibly have topped Wilson's list of the sexiest things ever, if "being the person making Greg House moan and pant and sound so desperate and needy" hadn't trumped it before it ever had a chance. It was so hot - hotter than anything had a right to be - and it wasn't as though he'd really thought about it before, but doing this to Greg was almost unbearably good. Reducing the renowned and irascible Greg House to an incoherent, writhing figure, winning hungry, urgent kisses broken by moans and panting, was both deeply satisfying on an emotional level, and so hot he didn't think he could think straight anymore.

He knew he'd known House too long when he found himself amused that, under the circumstances, he'd be surprised to find he couldn't think _straight_.

_Was he still dreaming or was this really happening? It didn't seem entirely possible that this could be real, but with Wilson's hand on his cock and his own tongue in Wilson's mouth, House decided he didn't care just now. If it was a dream, he wanted to get as much from it as he could before he woke up. If it was real, he wanted to get as much from it as he could before whatever the madness was that seemed to have struck Wilson wore off._

_Besides, it was probably very bad manners to interrupt someone who was in the middle of jerking you off. He'd ask Wilson if he'd lost his mind after they were done._

_If he didn't wake up first._

_The dream (the first dream?) had left him hard. His own hand had gotten him started, and so Wilson's hand already had him dangerously close to the edge. He knew he was moaning as they kissed, and his hips were thrusting upwards, and Wilson's other hand was busily exploring every part of his body it could reach, drawing other noises from his throat. If he wasn't careful, this was all going to be over far too quickly, and he wasn't sure he was prepared to let Wilson take such total control of the situation. He wasn't sure he liked being the one moaning helplessly at another's touch. Okay, so he did like it, more than he wanted to admit, but damned if he was going to let Wilson have all the fun._

_Wilson had moved up onto the bed to give himself greater range over House's body. Conveniently, this also made it theoretically possible for him to twist a leg between Wilson's, grip his hips, and roll over on the bed so the other man was pinned beneath him. Unlike some of his ideas, it worked just as well in practice as theory, and now Wilson was lying on his back looking up at him in surprise. He grinned down and it must have been a predatory grin, because he saw the flicker of anxiety mixed with the desire that showed in those warm brown eyes._

_Wilson wasn't in his late teens now, but, leaning over him, House still felt like a dirty old man. Time, he decided, to start acting like one._

He was pinned to the bed, tangled in those long legs, just like he'd dreamt, with House staring down at him, eyes intensely focused on his, teeth bared in a wicked smile. This, thought Wilson, in a daze, as he swallowed nervously, must be what it felt like to lie down under a tiger. And as House stooped to kiss him, he unthinkingly bared his throat to the predator hovering over him.

_His breath hitched sharply at the gesture of trust and submission. Wilson might be older than he'd dreamt him, but his gestures were as innocent, and his yielding as sweet. He bent to taste the smooth expanse of skin, softly trailing kisses along the jawline, nipping lightly at the point where neck met shoulder and hearing Wilson's gasp. He bit down harder, struck by an unexpected wave of possessiveness. He wanted to growl "mine" between his teeth, wanted to thrust into Wilson and pin him to the bed, lay claim to him body and soul._

He whimpered at the sensation of teeth on his skin, at the feeling of being so completely at the mercy of the man above him. He gave himself up to it, if only for the moment. He still had every intention of seeing Greg come under his touch, but this was so intense, so intimate, that he couldn't resist it. Greg always seemed to get his way with him, and that could get irritating, but in this moment, it was anything but. Because Greg wasn't just getting what he wanted, he was making it transparently clear that what he wanted was _him_ , and he was showing just how _much_ he wanted him.

The awareness of being so deeply desired was intoxicating, and he gave himself up willingly. He might have been vulnerable, but he wasn't powerless. He was _definitely_ going to use this against Greg later.

_He could_ feel _the tension change in Wilson's body. There'd been a moment of nervous strain as he bit, before the edge of fear slipped away. There'd been a vague hint of relaxation before the tension reasserted itself, this time as arousal. And he_ knew _that's what it was, he'd heard the whimpers turn to moans, felt the body beneath melt against his, before going taut again, arching up towards him._

_He ran his hands possessively across Wilson's body, noting the differences between the dream-Wilson and the real one - assuming that this was real. The merest suggestion of rib bones under his fingers, a stomach no longer flat, but firm. His nipples still stiffened to the touch, though, just as they had in his dream._

_And they weren't the only things._

When Greg's hand found his cock, he thought for a moment that was it, it was all over. His vision went dark for a heartbeat, and every nerve ending in his body seemed to explode. But the moment passed and he was still as hard as before, perhaps more so, if a little dizzy. He seemed hypersensitive, he thought he could feel every cane-callous on Greg's palm, on his fingers. As Greg squeezed gently he could hear his own panting turn to almost sobbing breaths. As the grip tightened he had a highly inappropriate moment of fellow-feeling for Greg's cane, and he would have laughed, if he had the air for it, knowing he was _never_ going to be able to see him grip the wretched thing again without thinking of _this_. He wasn't sure if he should tell Greg that or not. He would certainly be teased mercilessly if he did, but then, it might make Greg a little less resentful of his cane.

God, what a time to be thinking about Greg's mental health issues! If he couldn't stay focused on _this_ he probably had more issues of his own than he liked to admit. Just the fact that he was _doing_ this didn't speak well of his sanity.

Not that he cared, right now. He wouldn't have cared about _anything_ , as long as Greg kept doing that _thing_ to his neck with his lips - and he knew he'd have beard rash later, but again, he didn't care - and as long as his hand kept moving like _that_. He knew he was whimpering softly, but all he could think about was that he still wanted, needed, _had_ to see Greg come, had to see his face in that moment. Perhaps that meant he had to turn the tables again.

_Whimpering Wilson. Writhing Wilson. Moaning, sobbing, gasping Wilson. And all his._

_If this was a dream, he didn't want to wake up. Ever._

_His possessive urges were being kept at bay by the tremendous sense of power he was feeling. All of this,_ he _was doing. He was responsible for every gasp, every moan, every shuddering, sobbing breath._ All mine _._

_His mouth was still occupied with the curve of Wilson's throat. On some level he was aware that he must be leaving marks, but he didn't care. He was glad, in fact. He was marking him, not quite as good as stamping "Property of Greg House" somewhere significant, but close. He wanted the world to see these marks, and to know what they meant._

__Mine _._

_He wasn't expecting to suddenly lose control of the situation. Wilson was pushing against him, pushing him off, and he clutched urgently at the younger man, frightened, for an instant, that this was where dream turned to nightmare. But his grip only meant that as he was pushed over onto his back, Wilson was pulled on top of him, and he very rapidly realised that this had been the intention all along when his anxious gaze found Wilson's face._

_He'd never seen Wilson look so undone. Not by trauma or sorrow or anger or loss. His usual composure was long gone, torn to shreds. He was flushed and sweating, panting heavily. And he was looking down at him like a starving man looking at a feast; like he was dying of thirst, and_ he _was a glass of water. This was unnerving. In a good way. That look went right down deep and sent shivers to scale his spine. They didn't quite make it up to his brain, though, because it fried when Wilson gripped his cock and lunged forward hungrily to claim his mouth._

As soon as he broke the kiss, he locked his gaze on Greg's face, watching intently for ever flicker of emotion, every trace of a reaction. There was a pattern to it that he hoped to get to learn over time.

When he pressed just there, he could make Greg gasp. A slight squeeze here made him bite his lower lip, face contorting in a way that made Wilson's toes curl. And _this_ triggered a grimace that might have been mistaken for pain, if he wasn't so familiar with the specifics of Greg's "in real pain" face. He liked this version a _lot_ more.

_He knew he was being watched closely - in the moments when he could focus, he could see brown eyes fixed on him. In the moments when sensation overwhelmed him and he could barely breathe, he could_ feel _those same eyes, on his face, trailing across his skin. And he knew, too, what affect watching was having on Wilson._

_He felt the patterns in the way he was touched, his clever mind could fit together far more complex puzzles, and even through the haze of his desire he understood what was happening. When something Wilson did made him react physically, when the way he felt was clear on his face or in his eyes, he would hear the shift of Wilson's breathing, note the way he would do the same thing again, testing his responses. It might have seemed clinical, without the sounds of Wilson's ragged breathing, and the drops of sweat that fell from his face. And when he could see clearly, when the fog receded long enough for him to meet those eyes, he saw their avid gleam, the way they almost seemed to glow when he let out a wordless cry under Wilson's touch._

_He felt stripped bare and open, exposed in a way he hadn't been in a long time. He wasn't sure if it was wise, but he could no more refuse Wilson now than he could grow back his missing thigh muscle._

It couldn't be long now, he knew it. Even untouched, he was close, with his careful attentions, Greg could hardly be far from the edge himself. He began to increase the pace, seeking to push him over. He wanted to see Greg _fly_.

_After long years of medical training and experience, and more than enough experience with his body's failings, Greg knew his own reactions well. And he knew he couldn't last much longer. Not like this, not with Wilson looking at him like that, as though he were willing him to come, as though he thought he could trigger an orgasm with the intensity of his gaze. Greg was never going to let on how much of an affect that look was actually having on him. He'd never be able to see Wilson glare at him again without getting turned on, after this. Which was certainly going to make their arguments interesting._

_He knew it wouldn't be long, so he reached up to take Wilson in hand, thinking to drag him over the edge with him. But before he could make contact, Wilson had pulled back, sitting on his haunches, out of reach, but still free to touch and stroke as he chose. And he was getting faster and more demanding now, and as Greg let out a strangled moan, he saw a flash of pure lust in those eyes that burnt into his._

He pulled back when he felt Greg reach for him. He wanted to see Greg's face, and that meant no distractions. Anyway, he might have Greg on the brink, but he wasn't far behind him. Under Greg's touch, he might even have beaten him there.

As it was, he wasn't going to last much longer even _without_ Greg touching him. He swallowed at the thought of being so aroused by someone that he would get off without them touching him. Or him touching himself. Previously he wouldn't have believed it was possible, but...he thought he'd better speed up.

Besides, Greg really was close. Making him wait much longer would be cruel.

He made a note to do that later if he got a chance. For now, he was much more interested in seeing Greg come. Much, _much_ more interested.

Because Greg, having given up on the idea of returning the favour, at least for now, was gasping, sweating, biting his lip so hard he seemed about to bite through it. His whole body was moving, his hips thrusting, driving his cock into Wilson's hand, his head thrown back, his hands gripping the sheets under him, pulling them off the bed.

But Wilson wasn't paying much attention to all of that. His eyes were riveted on Greg's face. That wonderfully expressive face, currently contorted in the most delicious expression Wilson had seen cross it since that masseuse he hired had been working her magic. This was better than that, and this time _he_ was causing it.

He pumped his hand faster. _Come **on** , Greg!_

_He knew his mouth was opening and shutting and no sound was coming out. He knew his back was arched, his hands were gripping the bed like a lifeline._

_He knew he was about to...oh_ god _..._

_His eyes snapped open and found Wilson's eyes there, eager, desperate, yearning._

_Oh,_ god!

He thought the thrill that ran through his body at the sight of Greg's orgasm was probably better than his own could possibly be. He felt it in his toes, it made his scalp prickle and every hair stand on end. In its aftermath, he sagged, just like Greg, both spent, in their way.

God, Greg's _eyes_ as he'd come...the thought made his cock twitch, reminding him that he wasn't really finished here. But Greg was lying still, almost completely motionless except for the rapid rise and fall of his chest. The only sound in the room now was their harsh breathing.

He was still almost painfully hard, and seeing Greg's state he reached to take care of himself.

But suddenly a hand was gripping his wrist, vice-like, and those ice-blue eyes were staring into his again.

_For a moment or two he was completely out of it. Better than the vicodin, better than the LSD had been, better than anything._

_When he looked up after the dazed moment passed, he saw Wilson was about to take himself in hand. No way was he going to let that happen. That was_ his _job._

_And he had a feeling it was going to redefine the term "job satisfaction"._

_Now that was a thought. The addition of_ this _would definitely improve his working days. Clinic hours would be a breeze._

_He had Wilson's wrist in his hand. Automatically he'd grabbed it in the right way to feel his pulse fluttering against his fingers, like a trapped moth against glass._

_Their eyes met, and he grinned, wide and slow. This would be fun._

Greg swung a leg over him and pushed him to the bed, grasping his cock and squeezing. He was pinned under his long, lanky body, their faces were inches apart, and Greg had already, without ceremony or delay, started a fast-paced rhythm.

He groaned. He couldn't last long like this. Didn't really want to have to wait any longer, even though he wasn't sure he wanted this to end. He didn't know what was going to happen after this was over, and he couldn't help being a little worried.

Of course, Greg's avid enthusiasm for what he was doing seemed reassuring. But he had to admit that he wouldn't put it past Greg to display such devilish glee for less than obvious reasons. It would be just like Greg to do this so he could torment Wilson later.

But, he probably wouldn't be kissing him like this if he was doing this as some sort of joke.

_He loved seeing Wilson like this. He'd always loved seeing him disconcerted, seeing him let down his guard and just let go. This was better than just making him_ laugh _. So much more intense._

_It was so easy to lean forwards and kiss him, and_ so _good. Every kiss tore away more of Wilson's remaining composure. Long kisses left him panting, quick, soft kisses, to his great delight, made Wilson follow him as he drew back, reaching for more. It was sweet beyond belief to see him arching up, begging silently for more, offering his mouth up to be taken._

_He definitely had to try some of this at work. He wanted to see Wilson flushed with embarrassment and longing in his office, as he pressed him up against the wall and kissed him._

_If he didn't have glass walls in his office he'd be planning on doing_ this _as well as kissing him._

_Maybe if he could find a nice, quiet exam room or store room. Cuddy would never approve, but he didn't give a damn. She never did, and he never did. And he certainly didn't now he had_ this _on offer._

_He stared down at Wilson with the same intensity that had previously been directed at him. Flushed, panting, furrowed brows and bitten-red lips, Wilson was a sight to behold. Oh yes, he planned to arrange things so he got to see this a _lot_ more often._

As he'd expected, he didn't last long once Greg got a hold of him. He never lasted long under any of Greg's other assaults, why should this be any different? He usually didn't really mind Greg's manipulation under normal circumstances anyway, and he definitely didn't mind this.

In the end it was the look in Greg's eyes that wrung a desperate, almost choked moan from him, and sent him over. He thought he knew those eyes, thought by now that he'd seen every sort of emotion in them, but he'd never seen a look so fierce, so intense. Never seen Greg quite so intent on anything, ever, which in itself was almost frightening. He might have been scared if there was any room left in his head for fear. If that fierce, possessive stare hadn't been exactly what he'd wanted to see. If it hadn't been lit with something that might, seen from the right angle and under the right conditions, resemble affection.

In retrospect he would occasionally decide that he really, really should have been at least a little bit frightened by that.

In the moment, however, there was nothing but the rush of ecstasy and the sweet freedom of release.

_They lay side by side in the dishevelled bed now, staring at the ceiling. Panting had given way to less frantic breathing, but still, that was the only sound that filled the room. Neither of them had spoken a word the entire time._

_He wondered about that, as he regarded the familiar roof above him. Their silences were never truly silent, they spoke volumes, and this would be no exception. It was simply a matter of interpretation._

_He could feel Wilson's tension through his skin, where their sides were pressed together, but he wasn't rigid, so, nervous, not scared. Nervous about what, was the question. How to leave gracefully? How to explain this to himself so he could still call himself straight and find another nurse to "comfort"?_

_He told himself off for being so negative - Wilson had walked into his bedroom, climbed onto the bed, grabbed his cock and kissed him. Whilst sober. Unless this was Sexomnia, which seemed unlikely, on the face of it, it was hardly likely that he'd now want to turn and run._

_Besides, he'd seen the look in Wilson's eyes, through the haze blurring his own, when he was just about to orgasm. He had to suppress a shiver at the memory._

_So Wilson wasn't lying there nervously trying to think of a way to leave. That left, what? What to say next? Certainly it wasn't easy to know what to say when you'd just had one of the most amazing sexual experiences of your life with your best, male, allegedly straight friend. He should know. "Thank you" seemed somehow insufficient._

_But was that all? Wilson was rarely completely at a loss for words. At least, not for very long._

_What Wilson was really good at in situations like this, he recalled, was guilt. He'd taken home flowers and chocolates and confessed to his sins, when he'd cheated on wives. So perhaps it was guilt? Not for cheating this time, because he wasn't, but for acting without waiting to find out if_ he _wanted this too._

_He sighed internally. Typical of Wilson to worry about something like that at a time like this. He elbowed the other man gently._

_"If that's how you repay my hospitality, you're going to have to sleep on my couch more often."_

It was stupid, he knew it was stupid, but he was anxious. The instant the post-orgasmic euphoria began to fade, anxiety crept in. It made no sense! Why should he be anxious _now_? It might have been sensible five minutes ago, but he hadn't been anxious then, when he was...oh god...had he really...?

Okay, yes, he had some reason to be a little anxious. He knew what he'd seen in Greg's eyes, but he also knew how convincing Greg could be when he wanted to be. Why he'd wanted to be misleadingly convincing about this was beyond him, but a lot of Greg's motives defied understanding, even when they were explained.

It startled him when he felt Greg's elbow dig into his arm, and when he spoke, shattering the silence that had built up around them, he jumped.

"If that's how you repay my hospitality, you're going to have to sleep on my couch more often."

For all his mind was a mess, his mouth was invariably on banter-autopilot when he heard Greg speak in that tone of voice.

"I still have to sleep on the couch?" His tone of injured innocence was a little shaky, but he was pleased he was able to speak at all at this point. The tension that had been buzzing under his skin began to ebb away in the wake of the surge of familiarity triggered by the casual conversation, masking, as it always did, the more complex issues they were _really_ discussing.

"That depends," and now Greg rolled onto his side and was looking down at him.

"On?"

Greg leered, and something in his stomach turned over at the sight. Something else in the back of his brain rolled over and begged, but he wasn't going to listen to that just now.

"On what I'd get for sharing the bed, if _that's_ what you offer for a lumpy couch."

He felt the final, barely noticed edge of anxiety fading, this time under the onslaught of desire at the thought of what Greg was offering, and the huge sense of relief. He wasn't entirely sure what he was getting himself into, but it seemed clear that, whatever this led to, the essence of what was between them wasn't going to change.

The edge of a tiny grin tugged at the corner of his mouth as he looked up at Greg.

"You should see what demonstrating a grasp of basic office etiquette can get you." It was probably a futile hint, but he thought, at this point, it was worth a shot. But the wicked grin that lit Greg's face made him wish he hadn't tried.

"On the subject of behaviour in the office, how soundproof is yours?"

"Do I want to know why?"

"Well, my office is all glass, so unless you're into exhibitionism..."

"Greg!"

No, nothing was going to change.


End file.
